


Via Crucis

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, help my first post! ahhh!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-25
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-16 03:19:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/857172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>were you there when they crucified my lord?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Via Crucis

**Author's Note:**

> this is a product of all my messiah!sam obsessions. written during the s8 hiatus when i was convinced that the season would close with souls escaping from hell.

i.  
The crowd chooses Bela almost unanimously, no voting fraud.

She escaped from Hell with the others, millions of them, back in her corporeal body but not the same--they never are, when you bring them back, Dean and Sam are both proof of that. Something in them is missing, left behind back in that place, and sometimes Dean thinks that the part of them that came back should have been the part that stayed there.

“I’m sorry,” she tells them as she passes, her dirty hands clutching at their shirts. Dean pushes her off but Sam nods to her, looks her in the eye. He forgives her, like he’s always meant to, but Dean cannot, will not give her that last comfort while his brother still stands on the dais. He watches her walk down the wooden steps to the ground level, cautious and free, the bitch, and he wonders how she enjoyed her time in hell. The crowd, the massive crowd, waits for her, cheering and screaming, ecstatic, furious. This is how Cas always told them it would end- with noise and hate. No dignity for the Winchesters.

The shift is sudden, sharp like a stake to the heart and Dean stands and watches as they turn to Bela, put their hands on her, pulling her into the sea of blank faces and oh, they are thirsty for blood, she couldn't have thought that she’d ever truly get away. This is war, Bela, nobody’s happy, nobody lives. She notices it a second too late and turns to him as the first pale hands reach out from the crowd to grab at her tattered clothes. “Dean!” she wails as they surge to her, dragging her back to them by her hair, by her flesh and Sam is staring at the ground, his eyes shut tight, there’s blood on his face and Bela’s screaming, trying to fight them off but it’s no use.

She is pulled out into the crowd and they rip her limb from limb.

ii.

They strap a board to Sam’s back, trying his wrists to each end, already raw and bloody. This isn't what the crowd wanted; they still scream for a crucifixion, for a public execution so to quiet them, a crude circle of barbed wire is placed around Sam’s head. Blood drips from his temples and into his eyes, blinding him. He’s used to it; he walks forward anyways.

iii.

The crowds had been surrounding the house for hours, clawing at the windows, desperate and scrambling for any piece of Sam that they could get.

“Don’t go out there.” Dean warned every time he saw Sam casting sideways glances at the door. “You don’t owe them this. You hear that?” Dean turned to the window, dirty with hand prints, and he pulled back the curtain on the tidal wave of faces, all spelling out destruction, all spelling out this is what Sammy wants and now he is going to die. 

“My brothers owes you jack!” he shouted but the faces didn't change for him. He yanked the curtain back, pacing. He’ll kill all of them, he decided. It would take a while but he would slaughter each of every one, string their bodies together and wrap them around the firs of the forest like strands of popcorn, a new Christmas tradition for a new Christ, oh Sammy, oh Jesus- 

Sam kissed him and the taste of blood was there, mutual, Dean realized and it was fitting, poetic in a way that Stanford Sam probably would’ve appreciated. “This is what I need to do.” Sam told him quietly, close enough to be heard over the rattling of the windowpanes, the screams of the mob outside.

“You can’t do this. I’m asking you not to do this.” Dean begged. “You, of all people, are allowed to make your own decisions, Sammy. Lucifer, the angels, they don’t have fuck-all on you. ”

And the wind howled through the trees, razors on a sheet of metal; Sam kissed him again, the eye in a never ending storm. “I know.” he said and the door broke down with a crack, the flood overtaking them both, carrying them out to sea.

iv. & v.

There are four men assigned to surround Sam as he walks, to protect him from the claws of the horde and they walk with their eyes to the ground, arms out at their sides, holding back the multitudes. They’re there to prevent Sam from suffering Bela’s fate and to deliver him to the correct destination- the hill about a half mile outside the town limits, no man’s land.

Dean fights his way in, punching and wrenching and throwing sharp elbows, stepping on feet as hard as he can, small bursts of satisfaction in his chest when he hears the snap of their bones. He fells them like trees and soon he’s pressed against the back of one of the guards, the man’s arm digging into his throat. He’s so close, so fucking close to Sam now, near enough to see Sam’s knees trembling, his shoulders sagging, the broad span of his chest where his arms are spread out, each wrist tied to opposite ends of the board. 

Sam stumbles and falls, from misstep, from fatigue, Dean doesn't know, just gives one final shove and slips between the arms of the guards, scrambling to Sam’s side, his whole body singing, screaming take care of sammy take care of sammy, take care of sammy even as he walks to his death.

“Sam, hey-” he gasps, resting his forehead against Sam’s, relishing in the awful tear of the barbed wire in his skin. Sam’s arms tense, straining against the ropes and the wail he lets out when he can’t get free, can’t reach out and touch, is almost, almost enough to break Dean. 

Dean kisses him, there in the center of the crowd, because there’s not much more anyone can do about it now. Sam tastes like dirt and sweat and Sam, still Sam underneath all that ruination. “I’ve got you, Sammy, it’s alright, I’ve got you.” he says and Sam nods, lets Dean push the hair out from his eyes and wipe the blood from his face.

The thirty seconds of stationary movement is proving to be too much for the masses to tolerate and they’re starting to shove; Dean can see the strain in the eyes of the guards surrounding them as they struggle to hold back the impending swarm. Dean straightens up, grabs the collar of the nearest one he can touch, leaning in close, shouting in his ear- “Listen, you’ve gotta let me help him, he isn’t gonna make it there, you’ve gotta let me-” and the guard’s already nodding, relief filling his face as he pushes Dean away, back towards Sam. Dean stumbles and falls to his knees, wrapping his arms around Sam’s bare chest, mumbling nonsense into his brother’s ear as he lifts him up. 

“Dean-” Sam starts, his voice cracking with overuse and wear and dehydration. There’s bruises forming on his chest, his arms, one eye glued shut with ooze and his upper left canine is missing, more blood seeping into the cracks between his teeth, pooling in his mouth, his left pinkie finger is pointing the incorrect direction, outwards from his body and Dean kisses him again, harder this time, trying in vain to make up for how badly he fucked up. He had one job and he flunked; not only is Sam dying, he’s dying like this, looking like this, one eye to heaven and one eye clouded with blood. “Dean, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Dean begs. “Jesus, Sammy, whatever you do, don’t apologize.” Sam sags against him like the world’s been taken off his shoulders and Dean half-drags him towards the hill, the screaming at his back like an insistent hand.

vi.

As the shadow of the hill falls upon them, so does Cas, appearing in the small circle of the guard’s arms unannounced. A few people scream, pointing, but he’s not dead or bleeding so no one really seems to care. He walks with them for a few paces before touching a hand to Sam’s temple, and Sam breathes deeply for the first time in hours, the rasp of his breath gone and his other eye open.

“I cannot stay for long.” Cas tells them, looking at them with an emotion Dean can only place as sadness, before disappearing, the flutter of his wings barely audible. Dean considers praying for him to come back, to stop this, to either make Sam see sense or to have Joshua make God see sense but he realizes that Cas is no better than human now. He hasn’t yet fallen but perhaps he’s even worse.

vii & viii.

There is a group of women who somehow get to the frontward part of the crowd and they reach for Sam, touching him and calling to him, calling him Christ, calling him Messiah, calling him Savior.

“We prayed for you!” they shriek. “Thank you, thank you!”

Dean feels sick: he imagines them dead, disemboweled and Sam can’t stop crying. 

viiii & x.

They reach the hill just before Sam collapses and Dean has to dive for him, his hands curling around Sam’s shoulders, just one more kiss, please, Jesus, just one more, the last one, he swears, his brother is about to die and he’s earned this, they both have-

The guards try to pull him off, yanking at his shirt and he thinks, in those final moments, that he’s lucky the last kisses leave him with blood in his mouth. 

“This is it, Sam, this is fucking it-” he mutters, Sam’s cheek hot and sticky against his. “You did so good, Sammy, I never could’ve-” 

One of the guards slashes a knife into Sam’s side and he screams, his back arching as blood pours out of him, more blood, fuck, Dean didn’t think a human body could release so much blood in such a short amount of time and still be alive. He’s stunned enough that another man gets a hold of him, pulling him back sharply.  
“Sammy!”  
“Dean!”  
There’s the soft heat of Sam’s hand over his heart, over the tattoo that they share and then Dean’s ripped away, thrown back into the thundering crowd.

xi & xii.

There is no crucifixion. 

They haul Sam up onto the branch of the enormous tree on the hill, his arms still tied to that fucking piece of wood. There’s a rope around his neck and tears on his face and the multitudes are screaming, begging for more and soon there’s nothing in Dean’s mind but Sam’s face, drawn and hollow and full of nothing but love and the noise, the endless noise. There is Sam and then there is the screams and then for a few precious, awful seconds, there isn’t.

Dean makes himself watch and as the rope goes tight, a sob rises in his throat, then a mouthful of vomit. Sam’s feet only dangle a few inches off the ground.  
The crowd cheers.  
Dean wonders what Bobby would think of them now.

 

xiii.

The Impala carries them across the desert, the way she has a million times before. The Legos rattle in the vents and Cas appears and disappear periodically, saying little and blinking even less. He makes an aborted attempt at condolences somewhere around the Oklahoma state border, Dean thinks, but he really can’t concentrate on anything Cas is saying because he keeps seeing Sam in his peripheral vision, little glimpses, half remembrances of him but it’s not him, can’t be him because Sam’s laying stiff in the backseat, the rope burn on his neck purple and swollen. 

They’re heading to Kansas, back home, where a priest who believed in Sam, in the Winchester testimony, has requested the honor of burying Sam in his family crypt, no irony lost. Dean breaks down halfway through Arkansas and pulls over into the parking lot of a clapboard church house. There’s no one there but the doors are open, the interior dark except for the short rows of votive candles against the back wall. He fumbles for a book of matches as he approaches, easily striking one and grabbing the nearest unlit candle- right side, bottom row. He lights it, the spun blue glass of the candle’s little bowl glowingly eerily in the dark of the church. He doesn’t pay the votive fee. 

“Hey man-I mean,God-whatever-” he starts, feeling stupid and paranoid all at once, listening to his voice echo off the rafters. He knows God isn’t here, hasn’t been here for a long, long while but he has to try, has to let him know just how much- “I wanted to stop by and say that I hope...say that I hope-” 

There’s a stained glass window on the opposite wall of the church, St. Francis of Assisi, balding and long-faced in those stupid brown one piece robes. He holds his hands up, pale and thin, mottled red wounds painted in the center of his palms, blood running from his eyes and his forehead, his face turned to the sky, sobbing with ecstasy, so happy to receive all that suffering, all that pain, blessed to bleed for the Creator, blessed to bleed for the Heavens and the angels and blessed most of all to bleed for those who deserved it least and Dean thinks of Sam, cold and lifeless in the backseat, no redos, no take backs this time. Sam, the best of all of them dead for nothing, dead for the worst creatures to walk the earth. Oh, they never say thanks when you save them, do they, Sammy? he thinks. Maybe they’ll paint your face on these windows one day, hang a statue of you from the ceiling, those motherfuckers, those motherfuckers, finally, finally, finally-

The votive bowl shatters in Dean’s fist, the flame hot against his palm for the quickest of seconds before sputtering out, the candle dropping to the floor, the steady drip-drop of his blood following shortly after. 

He gets back in the car and he drives, leaving the shards of glass in his palm as long as he can stand it.

 

xiv.

He buries Sam on a Tuesday, dressed in the clothes he died in. It’s an impromptu, last minute ceremony, the kind of thing Dean specializes in. No muss, no speeches, just a quick left to the jaw. There are hundreds of people there, but Dean’s the only real mourner. The smell of rot and decomposition is absent despite the fact that Sam’s been dead for almost 36 hours and hasn’t been embalmed, but it doesn’t seem to matter as Sam’s body stays intact, the raw burn around his neck slowly fading, but Dean would figure as much- Sam’s above average, even in death. The marks on the forehead, however, stay blotchy and scabbed.

They’re gathered outside the crypt, Sam’s body already placed inside. The priest has been reading from the Bible for some time now, but to Dean, it’s dead quiet, hardly even the sound of breathing, and he has the overwhelming urge to stab something.

“About the ninth hour, Jesus cried out in a loud voice “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?  
My God, My God, why have you foresaken me?””

The wind whistles through the trees- violent, obscene.  
Dean prepares for the wait.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://changelinglouis.tumblr.com)


End file.
